


I Only Hear The Echo

by Liadt



Category: Bulman
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Series, emotionally clingy, mildly angsty with a touch of introspection, opener for my imaginary series 3, warning if destruction of property is triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post series, Lucy and George are living separately in Manchester and STG Investigations has closed its doors forever or has it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Hear The Echo

**Author's Note:**

> There are mild spoilers for the last broadcast episode of 'Bulman'.

As other students rushed past eager to reach the Union Bar before the end of happy hour, Lucy McGinty walked sedately down the corridor with her friends. Although she kept pace with them, she didn’t pay any attention to their chatter. She was well into her first term of Law, at Manchester University. Had it only been a couple of months ago she had sat with a closed off George Bulman making plans for the future, so they could forget the recent past? Today would be their first meeting since then. George had gone to work things out in his way and she had continued her plan to go to University, to sort things out in her way. For Lucy, it turned out to be the right decision, although it smarted to be considered a mature student at the ripe, old age of twenty-five.

Law might be different to mediaeval studies, but the rhythms of student life were the same and it made her feel secure enough to want to leave her comfort zone. She hoped George was all right, she felt guilty for enjoying herself, but when she wasn’t enjoying herself she was worrying about George, so she should stop feeling guilty shouldn’t she? It wasn’t her fault he wouldn’t talk to her. It infuriated her, when he kept information back from her. When they were working on a case, he claimed it was to hone her detective skills. This time, she guessed, it was to protect her from whatever private crisis he was going through, on top of being manipulated in to taking a case that led to a client’s murder. Something more than their last adventure together had affected him, but she couldn’t tell what. She hoped it wasn’t her asking about his ex-wife. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have kept on at him about his divorce. Everything was a lot easier in hindsight, she sighed to herself. Lucy wished George had opened up to her - it wasn’t as if they were acquaintances. He probably thought she was too young and inexperienced and needed to be protected. She thought he needed more looking after, with all the emotional baggage he‘d picked up over the years. They were as bad as each other.

As she approached the entrance doors, Lucy glanced at her watch anxiously. Would George be there? It was worse than first date nerves. He was on campus because he had an OU meeting. At least it wasn’t an exam - he wouldn’t appear for that. George had trouble attending exams - life and death situations had a nasty habit of clashing with them.

“Deep breaths, Lucy, it‘s everyone else who should be nervous,” said Cleo, a young black woman with long, wavy hair. 

Lucy frowned in confusion.

“Soon all the first years of the male variety will know who they have to live up to win your heart,” explained Cleo.

“It’s too late - I’ve found out what they’re like already,” replied Lucy, pulling an unimpressed face.

“After a lecture with Mr Reece I wouldn’t be interested in the students either. Even I can tell he’s sexy and I prefer the talent on the female staff.”

“There’s talent?” said Lucy, incredulously.

“The student union bar staff is employed by the University, same as the academics aren’t they? I’ve heard there are hotties hidden deep within the bowels of the chemistry department.”

Lucy smiled and shook her head. “Ah, to be young again.” As they passed through the doors, Cleo stayed with her to scan the grounds, while her other friends went off with out them.

“Is that George? He looks… different,” said Cleo, pointing at a middle-aged man, she hadn‘t seen on campus before, squirting a Vicks nasal inhaler up his nose.

“I never said detective work was for the glamorous alone.”

“No,” said Cleo, who preferred anything different to look flashier, preferably topped off with a cool hat.

“George!” shouted Lucy, waving as she walked towards him.

“Wotcha, Lucy!” returned George beaming, “And fellow traveller.” He nodded at Cleo.

“Hiya, I’m Cleo. I’m on the same course as Lucy,” said Cleo, who had decided she’d be wasting her student days if she talked to the same faces all the time. “Lucy goes on about you constantly and how you’re the last great detective, so I had to stay and meet you.”

“And do I live up to expectations?” George was both flattered and embarrassed. 

Cleo took in his shabby jeans, shapeless woollen hat, old black coat and tatty string glove clad hands clutching a Gateway supermarket plastic bag, containing his essays. “Er, do you have an encyclopaedic knowledge of opera and a classic car?”

“Will a bike and a well worn copy of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ do you?”

“Is your bike a Harley?” asked Cleo. George could be cooler than he appeared.

“It’s a Raleigh. I bought it at the market a few weeks back.”

“Oh. It‘s been nice meeting the much lauded GBH, but I can tell I‘m intruding between you and Lucy. See you later - I‘m late for an appointment,” and with that Cleo was off. George seemed all right, but not as enticing as gate crashing a chemistry department do.

“Charming girl, if abrupt. Not a fan of pedal power?” said George.

“Cleo likes fast cars,” said Lucy.

“Ah, is she drawn to you by your motor?”

“I’ve a mini if you want to borrow it.”

“A mini,” said George, scornfully.

“It’s a chariot of the Gods if you’re a student, which I am and so are you.”

“Part-time,” grumbled George.

“I could up-grade if we set up an office handling cases of industrial espionage. We’d need a car that wouldn’t be out of place parked in front of a multi-national’s HQ.”

“I’m done with solving crime.”

“You’ve said that before, Manchester’s a different city, different people and no spooks. It’s a clean break from,” Lucy hesitated, “Past events.”

“With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, confusion worse confounded.” George didn’t want to continue on that topic.

Lucy changed the subject. “I‘m having a house warming tonight. Do you want to come?”

“Flitting again after a few months? That‘s too impulsive, even for you.”

Lucy flapped a dismissive hand. “I didn’t know anyone when I arrived. I thought I’d wait until I knew enough bodies to fill the flat for a party. Fancy a catch up drink down the union - first pint’s on me?” Lucy knew George wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to keep his purse shut.

****

George was stretched out on a sofa, in a half-doze, in need of a comfy bed in a darkened room and not a lumpy settee. He was in Lucy’s flat, which was a cut above the usual student digs, instead of the usual posters, there was a reproduction of a mediaeval tapestry hung on the wall and a large bookcase full of books, not all of which were devoted to law. The kitchen was separate from the lounge, with a room set aside for study.

It hadn’t been a bad party, thought George. He’d felt old mingling with the young people, but most of them had been welcoming and he couldn‘t care less about the ones that weren‘t. The night improved when the ones who had brought bloopy records left, to go to their bleepy club, leaving George to play his sax accompanied by Lucy‘s muso mates. He’d forgotten what a pleasant Jazz voice Lucy had when she sang. He wished he had it in his head now, instead of a pounding that belonged on a white-label 12”.

Lucy came shuffling in to the living room, carrying two mugs of tea and a packet of headache tablets. “O thou invisible spirit of wine! If thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!” said Lucy, passing George the pills.

“I hate people who talk in quotes,” groaned George.

“Aw, you’re adorable when you’re grouchy. How about morning, you look awful?”

“That’s better, ta, my liver can only process plain speaking. I’m relying on the fresh air to cleanse me by the time I’ve cycled home,” said George, sitting up to slurp his tea.

“You can’t be serious, George, you’re not in a fit state to cross town, you‘ll roll straight under a bus. I’m taking you back in my car.”

“I’ll feel worse cramped up in a mini - I’m too big for those little motors.”

“The 2CV was hardly roomy and you’re exaggerating your size.”

“I’m sure there’s a joke in there, but I can‘t be bothered to decipher it. Not when I can’t decide if breakfast is a good idea or not.” George lay back on the sofa and waited for the tablets to kick in.

****

Lucy pulled her car into the side of the road and put the hand break on.

“My gaff is down here or it was,” said George, doubtfully. The road was closed off by fire engines blocking the way. The stench of smoke filled the air and black clouds floated up into the sky. Getting out of the car, they approached the nearest emergency vehicle.

“What’s happened? I live in one of the flats at the end of the road,” said George.

A female fire officer looked up from checking a hose. “I’m ever so sorry, duck, but it’s going to be a long time before anyone will be able to move back in. The building is a ruin.”

George turned to Lucy. “I’ve lost everything again.” He could cry, but he wouldn’t. It wasn’t the loss of possessions that upset him; it was Lady Luck turning her back on him again after a short space of time.

Lucy put a consoling hand on his arm. “Don’t be down - the sax is safe,” she joked, although her eyes showed her concern.

“Do you think the fire was for me?”

“Don’t be paranoid - wouldn’t it have made more sense to have scrubbed us both out at mine last night?”

“I used to work here, Lucy, I put away some very naughty boys indeed, me and the rest of our little firm. Christ! What am I going to say to Singer?”

“Singer, he was an Inspector wasn’t he? I remember you talking about him. Why is he important?”

“It’s his ruddy drum and I’ve let it burn to the ground.”

“It’s not your fault what a bunch of toerags get up to when you’re out.”

“Singer moved to Florida, he only uses, used, the place as a crash pad for when he visited family and I said I’d look after it.”

Lucy tried to find something positive to say. “He’s got insurance hasn’t he? What could be nicer than staying in a brand new flat, when he returns?”

George didn’t respond and stared at the smoking ruins. He had been starting to feel settled.

Lucy squeezed his arm to get his attention, staring off in to the middle distance wasn’t going to solve anything. “Do you have anyone you can stay with? I can give you a lift after you’ve talked to whoever’s in charge.”

“Nah, not been here long enough,” responded George, still not looking at Lucy.

“That settles it, you’re staying at mine. If you can’t access funds, I’ll buy you some stuff until you get a new bankbook. I‘m not being gassed by unwashed sock fumes.”

“I can’t take your charity,” said George, turning to Lucy.

“Why not? You did the same for me.”

George looked away again embarrassed and muttered something about not being quite so infirm he had to rely on others.

“It’s not because I’m a young woman is it? I know you’re a little old fashioned, but it’s 1989 - men hold babies on posters and women drive fire engines. Besides, what kind of friend lets their pal suffer due their sense of outmoded pride?” said Lucy, exasperated and quite willing to drag George home with her if required.

“OK, but it’ll be for a night or two, so there’s no need to go buying me anything.” It wasn’t the time of year to play at being a tramp. The last time he tried that caper he hadn’t got the chill out of his bones for days afterwards.

“Good,” said Lucy.

****

George was unimpressed as Lucy smirked at him over the kitchen table. Using the excuse of needing to buy ingredients for a home cooked lunch, Lucy had gone shopping for him behind his back. The problem with having lived with someone before is they work out what clothes fit you, he thought. He was grateful for the toiletries though, Lucy’s smellies smelt good on her, but he didn’t think they’d suit his pheromones. He chewed a piece of toast - Lucy’s ingredients turned out to be a tin of beans and sausages, a loaf of bread and for afters a can of tip-top cream and del Monte fruit salad. He considered asking when she had taken to eating like a Harvest festival donation.

“Have you any ideas on who started the fire?” asked Lucy.

“I’ve told you I’m done with gumshoeing; let the rozzers do what they’re paid for.”

“But if a villain is trying to off you…”

“Hmm,” said George, through a mouthful of toast. He didn’t know if detection was in his blood, as Lucy claimed, or a bad habit he couldn’t get out of. He did know there were few things he found more satisfying than putting villains away. It was when the people and institutions that should be on the side of right tricked him into doing things that went against his morals he wanted nothing to do with. 

George gave in, “I don’t suppose it’s a real investigation if it’s to protect myself. It might be worth digging up a snout from the old days to see if there’s anything going down.”

“And I’ll ask your neighbours if they saw anything suspicious. Does your snout have an amusing wee moniker - standard snout practise isn’t it?”

“Pete,” replied George.

“Pete the ponce?”

“Nah, too many of those.”

“Aw, I’m disappointed.”

“It’s ‘The Rat‘,” replied George.

“Because he looks like one?”

“Nah, because he gets everywhere, except for the Antarctic and it's short for Pratt. His full name is Tiberius Peter Pratt - his mother had pretensions, he had light fingers.”

“I’m surprised he isn’t known as ‘The Prat’.”

“It’s because he ain’t. Forget what you see in the movies, snouts aren’t small fry oddballs. Pete’s not big, but he ain’t a tiddler in a Northern pond. Some people like trouble.”

“I’ve heard,” said Lucy, deadpan.

****

In a dingy pub, George sat facing the door, nursing a pint. He had told the barmaid he was waiting for an old mate. She’d recognised his description of Pete and told George he was fond of an early drink. Pete came into the bar, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands to warm them up. He was the same age as George, wiry with curly hair and wore a new camelhair coat.

“Fancy a drink, mate?” said George, loudly, from his table.

Pete turned and blanched at the sight of George. Hurrying over to him, Pete hissed, “Keep it down.”

“What’s the matter? Are you ashamed to be seen with me? I’m touched I’m still remembered. All I want is information, for old time‘s sake and I‘ll leave you alone,” growled George.

“OK, but be quick about it,” said Pete, glancing over his shoulder.

****

Furnished with a new drink, George questioned Pete on villains from his days up North. 

“To be honest,” said Pete.

George lifted his eyebrows.

Pete ignored him, “None of the villains round here would bide their time before icing you. Hacked off relatives are another matter entirely.”

“Anyone spring to mind?”

“Who was that nutter who shot you?”

“Nick Carmos.”

“Yeah him, a son of his is knocking about trying to make a name for himself.”

“I didn’t know he had a son.”

“Yeah, he’s called Chris and he’s a bastard, in both senses of the word, but not a hard one - not as hard as he thinks. He has been shooting his mouth off about getting revenge for his dear old dad. He’s as unstable as Nicky, so you never know,” said Pete, with a shrug.

****

Lucy briskly walked down the street where George’s flat once stood. In the front garden of a Victorian semi, an old lady was planting winter pansies into a wide, concrete trough.

Lucy paused on the pavement to speak to the woman. “Excuse me.”

“Lordy, you didn’t half give me a turn,” said the woman, clutching a hand to her chest in surprise.

“I was wondering if you’d seen anything suspicious before the night of the fire. I’m a private detective, working on behalf of one of the tenants and he happens to be a good friend too.”

“Oh aye and he’s living with you now, I bet,” the woman replied, she wasn’t too sure Lucy was a P.I, but she had picked up on the ‘good friend’ part.

“Yes, he is actually.”

“I’d have thought offering him a bed gave you plenty of brownie points,” she said, with a wink.

“Er, it’s not like that. He’s an ex-copper mate of my Dad’s and the fire could be a revenge attack.”

“Ooh, why doesn’t he investigate?”

“He’s catching up with his old grasses.”

“Cor! I wish my Tony was here - he’d love this - he loves all those cop shows on the telly. Give me a minute to dust off the dirt and I’ll rack my brains. Do you want to come in for a cuppa?”

****

Lucy and George had reconvened in her kitchen, with a Chinese takeaway. George mixed HP sauce into his rice and considered if the extra couple of pints he’d had at the pub was a sensible idea or not.

“Any luck?” asked Lucy, twirling noodles around her fork. 

“Nick Carmos has a son. He’s the psycho villain who shot me and took me hostage. Chummy’s keen to make a splash and topping me would cause a few sizable ripples. Pete couldn’t tell me if that’s his modus operandi. The boy could just as easily be planning a blagging.”

Lucy took on board his words as she chewed. “Do you know what he looks like?”

“Yeah, Gothy.”

“I had a chat with one of your neighbours. She said she’d seen a lad with flame coloured hair - the same as mine, in his twenties, skinny, five foot ten-ish and wearing a navy blue duster coat.”

“Ah, I do love a nosy neighbour,” said George.

“Your neighbour first saw him a couple of weeks ago, delivering leaflets, from High Life Properties, offering to buy up houses.”

“I dimly remember getting one of them. I chucked it in the bin - not my gaff was it?”

“She gave me the advert, perhaps if we ring the number someone will know who he is.”

George studied the flyer. “Probably a cash in hand job. I doubt they’d have kept any contact details for the tax man.”

“Interestingly, the old lady saw him the night the flats went up in smoke. She said he was acting shifty. High Life Properties could have put him up to it. Burn down homes to make the homeowners sell the smoking remains off cheap, rather than waiting for the insurance money for rebuilding to come through. She also said the police didn’t seem interested.”

“It’s best not to excite some witnesses or they’ll pester the local nick with half-baked theories.”

“Still, two leads aren’t bad for half a days work,” said Lucy.

“Hmm, one is more promising than the other.”

“Time for some undercover work. You find out where the son hangs out and I’ll try and get close to him.”

“Not a smart idea, Lucy, he could get a bit naughty.”

“I’ve faced worse.”

“Yeah, but I can’t pull a few strings with the funny people if anything goes wrong up here.”

“A few friendly questions at a local watering hole is hardly a deadly mission. I’ve been a big girl for quite some time. You can’t go sniffing around, can you? It’d be more dangerous for you. He could be waiting for you to go rushing in and waste you there.”

George wasn’t happy at the thought of Lucy in a tricky situation. He’d had too much first hand experience of what could go wrong with undercover work to be entirely comfortable with the less dicey end of the scale. He still felt the pain over a client’s murder, so how much worse would it be if Lucy was hurt? Some might think of him as a hard man, but he wasn’t hardened.

“OK,” he finally said, “But I’ll keep you & chummy under obbo. We’ll need a couple of pagers so you can beep me if you smell trouble.”

“Yes, father and I promise to be back in bed for ten. Won’t delaying until we can get to the shops, on Monday, for pagers slow our investigations down?”

“If a lack of action is giving you itchy feet there’s always the High Life Properties outfit.” George waved the leaflet.

“I thought you didn’t think they were promising.”

“They might have a decent place to rent, so I might as well do some gumshoeing at the same time.”

“What’s wrong with here? Good central location, all the toast you can eat, separate bedrooms, true I was using the second bedroom as a study, but there are no cramped back offices or shop floors doubling as a bedroom here. You’re not still thinking old fashioned thoughts about being unable to offer patrician largess from my spare room?”

“I’m not doing down your drum, but I did say I’d only stay a few nights,” said George, grumpily. He suspected Lucy was trying to get back to how things were in London, which along with living together meant re-starting STG Investigations. Couldn’t she tell it was all over?

“Worried I’ll rope you into doing my homework for me?” teased Lucy.

“Mediaeval or law?”

“Law, of course.” Lucy was puzzled for a moment until the penny dropped. “Oh, you’ve been going through my bookcase. No, I’ve been majoring and minoring in Law, although I do like to keep up with the latest research. In fact…” Lucy stood up and went to get a Hammicks carrier bag, leaning against her bookcase, in the lounge. Returning to the kitchen, she held the bag in front of George, like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “I bought this the other week - brand new,” said Lucy, her eyes shining. She then took a book out of the bag and placed it before him. “My hero,” she said sincerely and without qualifying if she meant George or the book’s subject.

George smiled as he examined the tome. “Jean Boucicault - the chivalrous crusader.”

“You remember him?” It wasn’t a serious statement; George had become interested in Boucicaut because of Lucy’s passion for the knight.

“Another fine mess you got me into,” replied George, good-naturedly.

Lucy moved behind him, placed her crossed arms on George’s shoulder, and rested her chin on them to see the contents of the book as he flicked through it.

****

The next morning, George caught sight of Lucy watching him shave, in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “You don’t need to learn how to do this,” he said, as he checked his sideburns were of equal length.

“I was thinking what our cover story should be and I felt bored with usual scenarios like I’m your mistress and you’re buying me a love nest or you’re my Dad and I’m trying to get you to sell your mansion and move into a smaller place, purely to gift me the proceeds to avoid death duties.”

“I’d need a new suit for those two capers.”

“Exactly, so why don’t I go as your son? I‘m watching you for tips on how to act like a man.”

“That’s a ruddy stupid idea. Spill, what’s the real reason you’re staring at me?”

“None, other than I would like to gain access to the bathroom before the estate agents close. They won’t be open all day on a Sunday.”

“Who knows with the agents of the devil?”

“I didn’t know you were prejudiced against them.”

“Working on the Sabbath - stands to reason,” said George, squeezing toothpaste on to his toothbrush.

****

George and Lucy were sat on chrome chairs, inside the gleaming premises of High Life Properties. Behind the display, of properties for sale and rent, the walls were battleship grey. Across a desk from them was a man in his early thirties with slicked back, thick, dark hair and wearing a suit that wanted to be more expensive than it was.

“One of my neighbours passed this on to me,” said George, showing him the flyer.

“Didn’t you receive a mail-shot at your home?” asked the agent. 

“’Fraid not,” replied George.

“We’re very specific about which buildings we target. If you could give me some details first of where your residence is located, please.”

“We’re not interested in selling - we’re interested in buying.”

The agent perked up - he could sense a commission if he was lucky. “What type of property are you searching for? The building acquisitions side of the business is a new direction for the company. We sell mainly on the behalf of private clients.”

“Oh, really?” Lucy smiled and nodded encouragingly at the man to continue. 

“High Life is buying properties to convert into apartments.”

“It’s funny you should say that - I’m after a flat for my daughter, Lucy, here. She’s starting at the University next year, studying Law and I want her to get her own place.”

“My mother’s Scottish - I was brought up in Glasgow,” added Lucy, in response to the agents’ confused expression.

“If you’re not after an apartment straight away, you’ve come to the right place.”

“Because the newly converted buildings High Life has bought won’t be ready yet?” asked Lucy, astutely.

“Er, yes.”

“Do you have any brochures available?” said George.

“Yes, but the flats aren’t typical student digs.”

“Magic, no daughter of mine is living in some pokey dump with walls covered in green slime. Money’s no object.”

“I’ll go and get you a brochure.” The agent nipped off to the back office. Dressed in a denim shirt and jeans, George didn’t look a rich businessman to him. He was probably a nouveau-riche, self-made man, who made a fortune out of finding brass in muck.

“Triffic,” said George, as the returning agent handed him the glossy brochure. “These are what you’re converting old buildings into is it?”

The luxury apartment blocks pictured on the front cover were distinctly high-rise. There was no way Singer’s flat, which took up a quarter of a large, two-storey, Victorian villa, could be converted in to a twenty-floor block of flats.

“Converted sounds better than raised to the ground and built up from scratch - it’s more romantic,” said the agent.

“Can we view any of the flats yet?” said Lucy, faining eagerness.

“Not until the summer.”

“Oh.”

“We do have other modern flats that are styled in a similar fashion, if you’d like to view them.”

“OK then,” said Lucy.

Lucy and George continued their conversation, with the estate agent and made arrangements to view properties they had no intention of viewing. They then left the agency arm in arm.

“Don’t over do it - I’m losing the feeling in my left arm,” grumbled George.

“You bet I’m over doing it - you’re buying me an overpriced, swish apartment. Keeping my distance would be ungrateful, Daddy.”

“This Daddy likes his daughter to walk a good foot away. And don’t call me Daddy - it makes me sound like a ponce.”

“Yes, it does come across as seedy,” admitted Lucy, now she had time to think about it, but she kept hold of George all the same despite his complaints.

****

While Lucy had spent her day with lectures and study in the library, George had paid another visit to Pete and bought two pagers from the Arndale Centre. It was dark now and George parked the mini opposite the club where Chris Carmos was said to frequent. The club was squeezed between workshops, which were closed up for the night, in a quiet street just off a brightly lit, busy main road. It was Goth night and Lucy had backcombed her hair and applied dark eye shadow and purple lipstick over a pale base. Her clothes weren’t particularly gothic, but they were black.

“I couldn’t disguise myself more if I had gone undercover as a boy,” said Lucy, checking her heavy make-up in the car mirror.

“Don’t let a bit of pan stick make you cocky around chummy,” warned George. 

“I’ll be careful,” promised Lucy. She thought George was getting a taste for gumshoeing again at the Estate Agents, but this side of their private enquiries would remind him of the side of detection that threatened the soul as well as the body. Lucy hoped it went well tonight, not only for her safety, but also to get George over his reticence to go back into practice. It didn’t have to go badly all the time, did it?

As Lucy crossed the road, George suppressed a desire to leap out of the car and trip her up so she’d have to stay in the motor, while he went in her place. If Chris had inherited his father’s temperament, he couldn’t abide the thought of Chris even breathing on her. An old memory of discovering two slain coppers floated to the top of his mind and his imagination replaced one of them with Lucy’s body. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he was overcome by an emotion that went against his pacifist principles, naughty didn’t cover what he would do to Nick’s son if he did anything to Lucy.

 

****

Lucy passed the disinterested bouncer into the half-empty nightclub and went to the bar to order half a pint of snakebite, although she would have liked something stronger in the circumstances to steady her nerves. She scanned the club looking for a nineteen year-old lad, who fitted Chris Carmos’ description, with dyed black hair, blonde roots and a mole on the right hand side of his chin, if he hadn’t covered it up with alabaster foundation that is. Sipping her drink, she wondered if the shifty ginger youth was a mate of Chris’s. Perhaps, she should have stayed on campus and questioned her fellow first years or investigated the local YTS groups. Hopefully, if anyone from uni was there they wouldn’t recognise her. Tonight she wasn’t the daughter of a cop, but had assumed the mantle of a villain from out of town. 

A young man came out of the gents and strolled up to the bar. He was wearing a black T-shirt and trousers under a long black overcoat. His hair was dyed black, like the majority of the clientele and his face was mercifully free of make-up. He noticed Lucy staring at him and misinterpreted her reasons for gazing at him.  
He approached her confidently. “Hi, I’m Chris. Do you want a drink?” he casually asked.

“I’ve already got one, thanks, but feel free to stick round and buy me another. I’m Lucy, by the way, Lucy Rossini, if you’re into surnames.” Lucy’s Scottish accent was more pronounced than normal.

“Is that Rossini as in the gang that covers from Edinburgh to Glasgow?”

“Aye, how did ye know?”

“My surname’s Carmos.”

“Carmos - that’s Greek isn’t it? Sounds familiar.” Lucy pulled her best racking the brains face.

“My uncle he married into the Revell’s, after a fashion.”

“Ah, I know who you’re related to now.”

“So what are you doing all the way down here from Bonnie Scotland?”

“I’m checking the city out. My family’s firm is expanding, they’re thinking of setting up a temporary branch in the North to see how it goes. The manager will be hiring locals for their knowledge. I’m from the HR Department.”

“I guess your family will want a successful launch after the trouble they had in London recently. You’ll have no problems round here with me to guide you,” said Chris, cockily.

“I won’t will I? You’ll have to talk me through your CV,” said Lucy, trying to sound amused.

****

It was two in the morning and George was having trouble staying awake. A knock on the car window jolted him out of his doze, followed by Lucy climbing into the passenger seat of the mini. George inhaled the smell of booze and cigarette smoke clinging to her and he wouldn’t have minded a sample of either. 

“You didn’t half give me a start,” said George, in surprise.

“Fine minder you turned out to be,” said Lucy, sounding smug rather than cross.

“I would have been in there like a shot if I suspected you were in any danger. My psychic knee wasn’t giving me any gip.”

“The Saints preserve your knee,” said Lucy, with mock solemnity, patting his knee, which earned her a scowl and remonstrative glare. 

George shifted his leg and started up the car. “We should get away from here before chummy leaves.” Just because nothing had happened in the club to Lucy it wasn’t a reason to become careless.

“Your snout’s information wasn’t duff; Chris is after revenge.”

“Is that why you’re so pleased? I wouldn’t have expected a toerag, who wants to top me, would illicit such a response from you.”

“Ah, he’s after you all right, but he couldn’t have torched your flat, because he has no idea where you live. I convinced him I was from a Scottish firm of villains and he was asking me if I could help him find you!”

“It’s a weight off my mind knowing I can go a week without a threat to my person.”

“I’m relieved too. Who are we going to go after next? The land grabbing estate agents or the ginger lad?”

“Neither. All I wanted to know was if it was personal or not. The rozzers can find the real culprit - it’s their job.”

“Oh come on, George, you can’t leave a case unsolved - I know you can’t,” wheedled Lucy.

“Hmm.”

“You want to, I know you do.”

“I don’t…” began George, hesitantly.

“Don’t you want to know who did it?” interrupted Lucy, sensing his resolve weakening.

“All right then, but it’s for Singer and the other residents and not for the sake of investigation itself.”

“Okay, of course not,” replied Lucy, although she didn’t believe one word of his last sentence.

****

A month passed and the police investigation concluded the fire was started deliberately. Investigations were “on going”, but no real progress had been made. George and Lucy’s investigation was on going too.

“Fancy coming out with me tonight,” said Cleo, brandishing a flyer under Lucy’s nose. They were coming out of a lecture hall and had finished their scheduled studies for the day. 

Lucy took the cheaply photocopied paper out of Cleo’s hand. “I think your memory has been affected by cramming too many laws into your brain: we went to this club night on Wednesday.”

“Turn it over - it’s double sided.”

“I can’t go - I’m staying in with George and a takeaway.”

“He can come too.”

Lucy scrutinised the description on the flyer. “Hmm, it’s not his kind of music. Kev’ll go, ask him.”

“Kev’s no good, Shaz doesn’t like him. She thinks you’re brill.”

“Isn’t it about time you met her on her own. It’s out of character for you to be bashful.”

“Shaz’s special. I don’t want to scare her off and you’ll stop me doing anything that’ll convince her I’m a right div.”

Lucy sighed. “Why don’t you invite her over to mine tonight? That way you’ll have two chaperones. She’s studying philosophy isn’t she? If you start to flounder I’ll prompt George to start a philosophical debate.”

“Or play guess the quote,” said Cleo.

“Well, yes, but he wouldn’t be George if he didn’t.”

“Talking of which: how’s the arson investigation going? You haven’t mentioned it for ages. Trail gone cold?”

“We kept watch on the street where George used to live and then we visited areas ideal for redevelopment, judging by the sites High Life Properties had already built on, but it turns out there are a distinct lack of dodgy, red-haired lads hanging around. George is keeping the estate agents under obbo, from a café opposite, in case anyone shifty turns up. There’s the agents themselves, but there are only two of us and it’s an impossible job to keep tabs on everyone. I feel bad letting George do all the obbo work, but I can’t skive off any more lectures.”

“Are you going to give up on it soon? There must be loads of ginger blokes in Manchester and it’s hat weather.”

“I suppose we’ll have to. It does keep George out of mischief. He was fixing client’s clocks in the flat and after they went up in smoke, he hasn’t had any business since.”

“Maybe there’ll be an outbreak of broken clocks over Christmas and a clamour for horologists?” suggested Cleo.

Lucy was uncertain. “Maybe.”

“Will he be moving out once you’ve finished gumshoeing?”

“George can stay as long as he wants and it’ll be Christmas soon - he can’t spend it on his own.”

“Whether he likes it or not?”

“Yes!”

Cleo shook her head. “You’re a strange girl. What’s wrong with keeping a gonk instead? You can‘t keep him with you forever.”

“You haven’t seen the size of the book on Boucicaut I bought. It’ll take him ages to finish and I’m not letting him take it out of my place to read.”

“I don’t know if you’re worried about the state of his mental health or you want him around for the sake of yours.”

“To be truthful it’s both. When we’re apart we get into more trouble, serious trouble, than when we’re together.” Lucy looked thoughtful. 

“You’re like a ninja tag-team? George delivers the punches and you break a vase over baddies heads?”

“No, it’s not like that. When we work as a team we avoid the worst the funny people can throw at us. If George’s safe, I’m safe - we have a link you know. Our last job - it was awful. The docklands pad was totally trashed, it was meant to be pretend, but they went too far.” As she spoke she fiddled with a jade pendant strung around her neck. Lucy wondered if their association with Dugdale had held some weight and if they’d been new faces to MI5 they would have received a lead goodbye rather than a scare. 

Cleo nodded sympathetically, thinking Lucy was upset about the break-in. Cleo didn’t know the whole truth about their final enquiry; Lucy had signed a piece of paper to keep her mouth shut.

“Once that happened, I knew no matter how many precautions I took if someone wanted to get to me they’d find a way. I don’t let it paralyse me. I carried on with my studies after my Dad was killed and I thought the world had ended and I will through this. If there was light at the end of the tunnel, it was George. And this time I’ll be that light that gets him through,” said Lucy determinedly. 

Cleo raised her eyebrows. “I know George is well old and that, but if you feel that way don’t you think you should, er, be more than friends?”

“Oh no! It’d be like getting off with my Dad,” said Lucy, horrified.

“If you’re checking on George every five minutes, what happens when you meet someone you want to go out with? They’re bound to get jealous.”

“I went out with a few boys in London and they didn’t mind. They were more nervous of him then jealous. Anyway, that’s trying to second-guess the future. I’d rather deal with what is than what ifs. It’s not as if we live in each other’s pockets, we have things we do separately.”

“Reminds me of our old family cat. We never saw him half the time, but he always came back for his tea at half five on the dot. One day he didn’t come back. We thought he must’ve been run over, but he’d got locked in the neighbours garage and he didn‘t get out until they came back off holiday. It was lucky he was a big, fat thing - there was no food in there.”

“I don’t think George would appreciate being compared to a big pussycat,” said Lucy, with a grin.

****

George drank his third cup of tea of the afternoon. He was in the café, opposite High Life Properties. The café was an unpretentious affair, with Formica tables covered with wipe-clean tablecloths and plastic squeezey bottles, in the shape of a tomato. In time, it would no doubt be replaced by something clean, clinical and serving cutting edge cuisine, but for now it was a sore thumb on a street that had gone up in the world. In his hand, George held an academic textbook he had taken out of the University’s library using Lucy’s card. He kept one eye on the road outside, but he was more interested in the book. He didn’t think the case would be solved by him or the rozzers, but he felt like he was stagnating doing nothing if he read the book back at Lucy’s pad.

George’s plan to find a new gaff after a few days had fallen by the wayside. The plan was to leave when the case was solved or proved to be unsolvable. At first he was distracted by trying to find new leads and then he dawdled, over house-hunting, because he had forgotten how much he liked living with Lucy, which couldn’t all be down to mutual participation in dangers and misfortunes, as Johnson would have it. In addition, there was the bonus of meeting her interesting student mates, like the philosophy girl last night. Not that he and Lucy ran out of subjects to talk about - there weren‘t many into detection and mediaeval studies as they were. They were hewn from the same block; the only difference was he’d suffered more erosion. Lucy was daughter, best pal, protégée and twin rolled into one. Then there was the flat, Lucy had spent her nest egg well; it was a decent pad. It wasn’t huge or flash, but it wasn’t pokey either - it was just right. He would have preferred a larger bedroom, but it wasn’t as if he had any stuff left to clutter it up. It would have been better if it were his place instead of hers. If he got his own place, he couldn’t expect her to leave and go to his as before. It made sense when they were running STG to share the same space.

“Do you want a top-up, George?” asked Mrs Hann, the rotund joint owner of the café. She had taken a shine to him and did things like adding an extra egg or rasher of bacon to his order when her husband wasn’t looking.

“Nah, I’ve barely started on this cup, ta.”

“I’ll come back in a bit then. One of the customers left a copy of ‘The Morning Star’ behind. If you haven’t read it yet, I’ll bring it over.”

“You’re a diamond, Mrs H,” said George, with a grin.

As Mrs Hann bustled back over to the counter, the door swung open to admit a gangly, flame-haired youth, in a blue duster coat. He clicked his fingers and said, “Shop! Get me a coffee and bacon roll to go and don’t put butter on it like the last time. Hurry up and be quick about it - I’ve got a major job on.”

“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll get your order for you,” replied Mrs Hann, narrowing her eyes at the unpleasant new customer.

How rude, thought George, someone needs to teach him some manners. I’ll do it if I find out it’s the same toerag who left me homeless. 

When the young man left the shop, George stood to follow. “I’ll see you soon, Mrs H; I’ve just remembered, I’ve an important meeting. I’ve left the money on the table.” Walking quickly to catch up with the suspect, George pushed him down the first convenient side alley they passed and shoved him up against a wall, sending the lad’s coffee and bap flying out of his hands.

“Hey! What are you doing?” protested the youth, trying to squirm out of George’s tight grasp.

“Just asking a few friendly questions. What’s this job you’ve got on?” growled George.

“It’s just a delivery job, sticking leaflets through letter boxes,” the youth said lamely.

“Do you always act cocky when you have a poxey, piddling job to do? I didn’t like the way you were talking to the lady in the café.”

“OK, I’m sorry. I’ll be polite in future; can I go now, please?”

“Not so fast, my old son. The last time you were seen hanging around posting leaflets my gaff ended up burnt to the ground. I though I had another contract on my head that needed sorting out. Turns out none of the scum around here are that stupid to send a funeral arranger after me. Now unstop your mouth, while you’re still recognisable to your old ma,” said George, drawing back a fist.

The lad’s eyes widened in panic. If he knew the building had a gangster living in it he would never have gone near it in the first place. “It wasn’t my fault, Mr; it was Sherrington Rise - the estate agent boss. He put me up to it. He said it would be an easy job cos it was arson all the evidence would go up in smoke. I needed the cash, my dad left when I was a kid…”

George twisted the collar of the lad's shirt, constricting his airways. “Spare me the bleedin’ violins. There are plenty of law-abiding kids from broken homes. Who do you think you’re talking to? Your social worker? You disgust me. Tell me why Rise wanted to reduce my drum to ashes.”

“You’ve seen the adverts right?” the youth continued nervously, when George loosened his hold. “Rise reckons he’ll make a killing re-developing that land, but he had trouble convincing people to sell. He thought they wouldn’t be so keen to return once it had been torched.”

“Lucy was right,” said George, under his breath.

“What?”

“I wasn’t talking to you. Time to take a trip,” said George, aggressively.

“Oh God, please, I’m the monkey not the organ grinder. Don’t hurt me - it’ll kill me mum.”

“I told you about trying for the piggin’ sympathy vote.” George shoved him hard back against the wall. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest. You can repeat your story to the police.”

“Are you crazy? I thought you were a villain and I’d torched your pad.”

“It wasn’t my pad; technically it belongs to an old colleague: an Inspector of the law, like I was.” George spun him around, twisted his arm painfully behind his back, and frogmarched him to the nearest police station. 

****

“Wotcha Lucy,” said George, with a large smile. He came into the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine, a newspaper and a plastic bag from a butchers. 

“Hello, you’re looking very pleased with yourself. Care to tell?” said Lucy, looking up from studying her notes on the table.

“Tonight I intend to celebrate the shift of the Bulman star into the ascendant.”

“If I offer you a chip will you translate for us Earth bound mortals?”

“Your detective instincts were bang on. The ginger kid got handy with a box of matches egged on by Mr High Life. The rozzers are pulling the office apart as we speak.” George handed her his copy of the late edition of ‘The Manchester Evening News’. In a small box left blank for breaking news items was printed: “Police are investigating evidence High Life Properties was involved in a recent case of serious arson.”

“George! Why didn’t you call me? After all the time we’ve spent on this case, I wanted to see its conclusion.”

“It ain’t over yet - there’s a court case to go. Then there’s my favourite part where villains are put away.” George rubbed his hands together. “Beak’s hate arsonists. There’s no finer feeling when justice prevails, finer than this wine’s price tag promises.”

“Shall I do the honours?” Lucy stood to find some glasses.

“Yeah, if I can have some of your chips to go with my steak. There’s enough meat for two.”

“To what shall we toast?” asked Lucy, when the wine had been poured.

“To detection,” said George, lifting his glass.

“To detection,” repeated Lucy, bringing her glass up to meet George’s. “As this case has made you so happy, what do you think to re-opening the old firm?”

“STG?” George furrowed his brow. True, he was ecstatic over nailing the guilty toerags, but would he still feel the same tomorrow?

Lucy gave a small nod.

George didn’t get the chance to reply as their celebration was cut short by a frantic knocking at the door. Lucy put down her wine and rushed to find out what the commotion was. Cleo fell through the door as Lucy opened it.

“Thank the Lord you’re in, Lucy. It’s Shaz’s aunt.”

“She’s not hurt is she?”

“No, it’s her youngest son - he’s missing,” said Cleo, collapsing into an armchair.

“Do you want to call the police?” suggested Lucy.

“I can’t do that, they won’t be bothered. The son disappeared, with the family silver, twelve years ago. Auntie's dead sick and frail. She wants to see him before she dies and put the family silver back on display. It was a gift to the family from aristocrats they helped dodge the guillotine, during the French Revolution. If you and George say you’ll help; Shaz’ll think I’m ace.”

“What makes you think we’ll help? Especially as the aim of this job is to help you get into Shaz’s knickers,” asked George, glass in hand, standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“We’ve all heard the stories of how great STG Investigations was and Lucy said you had bog all else to do,” replied Cleo.

“I didn’t, I mentioned you hadn’t had any clocks in to fix recently,” Lucy glared at Cleo.

“Auntie's rich, you won’t be paid peanuts. Is there any more wine left? I’m gasping after making my way here.”

“Its £300 a day plus expenses,” said George, flatly.

Lucy smiled and then solemnly intoned, “And we don’t take divorce cases.”

“No spooks either or we’re out,” added George.

****

The End

****

**Author's Note:**

> Funny people = spooks, spies, British Intelligence.
> 
> Gateway was the supermarket that replaced Key Markets - George would run out of Key bags one day.


End file.
